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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602737">(un)feeling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Will_Survive/pseuds/I_Will_Survive'>I_Will_Survive</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Barista Renée, Comedy, Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Non-Con Abuse, Neil Comforts his Stupid Boyfriend, Neil Loves his Moron of a Boyfriend, Neil helps Andrew, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Triggers, trigger warning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:34:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Will_Survive/pseuds/I_Will_Survive</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew begins the process as always. His daily ritual. Unfortunately, Neil manages to worm his way into yet another part of his life that doesn’t involve him. The cheeky bastard.</p><p>Trigger Warning: Explicit Descriptions of Self Harm, References Past Abuse/Trauma, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Angst</p><p>Neil loves Andrew and helps him recover the ability to feel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(un)feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please, don’t read this if it will be too much for you. The trigger warnings are there because I care about you.</p><p>I want to write a fic about Neil helping Andrew learn how to feel again. And how painful and brilliant and messy and beautiful that process is for them. I’ll try to update regularly. </p><p>Comments are appreciated.</p><p>There will be a happy (or at least hopeful) ending.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I.</p><p>It begins as it always does.</p><p>4 a.m.</p><p>Andrew dresses himself: today, in a white button-up shirt and jeans. Semi-formal, as though he’s going to Church with Nicky and his parents again like when they were younger. But they’re not young anymore. They’re old and stupid now.</p><p>Black coffee made the night before, boiled to hell on the stovetop. A single protein bar, swallowed without tasting the bland and jagged edges if possible. Finally, using the restroom.</p><p>Andrew Minyard closes the door, careful as always not to wake Neil. He slowly slips his jet black armbands off of his wrists, unfolding each butterfly knife with effortless precision. His expression remands bored and uninterested as ever.</p><p>He rolls up his left wrist, picks up the jade blue knife, and quickly taps the blade against his wrist, softening the skin. Red drops glint lightly across his arm, but his expression remains bland, physical pain not so much a foreign concept to him as an old habit—comforting, delicious, and cruel.</p><p>Andrew is careful as ever. He begins to actually draw his lines, just as securely and tightly as he draws his boundaries. Lines that can’t be crossed. Left. Right. Under his control.</p><p>Andrew thinks of Drake. Dr. Proust. Luther. He smiles lightly. All these old friends are dead now. Of course, he pays them a strange homage by welling up a tithe of blood for them every day at 5:15 a.m., like clockwork. </p><p>But this is not for them. This is not for his team.</p><p>This isn’t even for Andrew himself, he’s realized. </p><p>This is his preparation for his mortician. This is a gift for the maggots in his cemetery. This is an apology for Neil at his own funeral. He’s slowly breaking down layers of skin, tissue, blood vessels, and himself. Eventually, the cool and sweet layers of sod will wrap around his body like Drake’s sweaty, calloused hands wrapped around his neck. Eventually, he won’t have to feel the ghost of Drake’s touch. Eventually, there will be no more feeling. Eventually, he’ll have the sweetness of death’s nothingness drowning his useless neurons forever.</p><p>Death is the greatest bored, uninterested expression he will ever be able to achieve.</p><p>And he can’t. fucking. stand it anymore.</p><p>He doesn’t want his face to be blank and expressionless, like an unsmiling doll. He doesn’t want to enter the grave unblemished, letting everyone forget what those wicked old friends would do to him. He doesn’t want to self-destruct.</p><p>He wants to breakdown. He wants to drench the floor in tears as he sobs into Neil’s neck. He wants his blood to scream across the Maserati windshield. He wants to dry-heave his lungs out. He wants to feel.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to. Not anymore.</p><p>Sure. He can smirk at Neil’s stupid curls, auburn ringlets dancing around burn scars. Sure. He can gawk at Neil’s inability to shy away from a fight. Sure. He can move his lips at Neil’s glance. He can blink his eyes at Neil’s kiss. He can disarm himself, and bit by bit, he has.</p><p>But he doesn’t know how to scream anymore. He doesn’t know how to cry. He doesn’t know how to sob. The vocabulary of his own bodily emotions has become foreign to him.</p><p>If he cared about his own body—beyond its use as a tool for Neil’s protection—he could learn how to cry again. Maybe. </p><p>But then again, that would cost him too much. </p><p>Caring about himself again would force him to feel everything again. And he much prefers nothing to everything.</p><p>Neil knows that better than anyone. The bastard.</p><p>Neil can never know about his habit. He’s managed to make Andrew feel more than anyone or anything else has. He needs his limits.</p><p>He needs his boundaries. He needs his lines—dancing across his left wrist, blooming flowers, crying children, alabaster asylum walls, he—</p><p>“You should stop. That’s enough for today.”</p><p>Andrew cuts his eyes across his right shoulder. Neil is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, eyes silent and expression unreadable. </p><p>“You—“ Andrew starts, glaring at Neil’s uncompromising gaze. Neil looks unimpressed. Unsurprised, even.</p><p>“You knew.” Andrew can barely choke out the words. It’s not a question. “How long have you known?”</p><p>”Since... since we started rooming together...” Neil sighs, averting his eyes,</p><p>Andrew stops. They’re fourth-years in college. </p><p>“You’ve known about it for three years...” Andrew states. “And you’re only stopping me from doing this now?”</p><p>”It’s 6:05, Andrew. You’ve been cutting for fifty minutes. It’s never gone this long before.”</p><p>Shit. It hasn’t. Fifteen minutes. That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.</p><p>”I never carve too deep...” Andrew starts. Neil grabs the knife out of his grip and throws it into the shower. It clangs against the cheap ceramic.</p><p>Neil doesn’t say anything. He reaches into Andrew’s first aid kit, the special one he thought he’d kept hidden, wedged underneath the loose floorboard. Neil, stupid fucking Neil, extracts the heavy gauze and antiseptic from the bag and glances to Andrew.</p><p>”Yes. Or no.”</p><p>It’s a question for Andrew. Slowly, the blond boy sighs. He feels smaller than he’s ever felt.</p><p>”Yes,” he says, glancing at the floor and holding out his arm like a promise.</p><p>Neil works quickly, washing the wounds and daubing his wrists with the sweet sting of antiseptics. He expertly starts to wrap the gauze pads. Suddenly, Andrew realizes, that Neil has seen Andrew do this before. Multiple times. </p><p>This is his exact routine to bandage up his habit.</p><p>He can’t handle it.</p><p>“I’m...” Andrew starts. “I’m not your pet.”</p><p>”No, no you’re not,” Neil states, without glancing away from his work. “If you were, I’d never have let you end up like this.”</p><p>Andrew glares at him. Stupid. Stupid boy. Neil is stupid. Everything Neil says and does is stupid. Neil’s stupid kisses against Andrew’s cheeks. Neil’s stupid food guzzled down his throat. Neil’s stupid bandages hugging fondly his wrist.</p><p>Neil finishes his work, catching him dead in the eye. “Bee already knows, yes?”</p><p>Andrew hesitates, if only for a moment. He briefly nods. Betsy had known for the past six months. She checked his wounds each week with him, making sure they weren’t infected or too deep.</p><p>”Okay, you little bastard,” Neil starts. “Here is how this is going to happen. You are never doing this longer than fifteen minutes again. Every day, you’re shaving one minute off of your habit. And for every minute you forget to take off of your habit, I’ll add one onto my own.”</p><p>Andrew grabs Neil by the wrist, just barely tight enough to avoid spraining anything. </p><p>“You lay one finger on yourself,” Andrew starts, “And I’ll—“</p><p>”You’ll what?”</p><p>Andrew stops. He’s not doing this. He’s not threatening the only stupid, moronic ginger, disgusting, dumbass, ridiculous boy on the planet that he can stand. </p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Neil smirks, smiling at Andrew with nothing but seething ferocity behind it. “Now, pack your shit and get dressed. We’re getting coffee with Renée in thirty.”</p><p>”I’m not going to—“</p><p>”She already knows what you’ve been doing to yourself. Shut the fuck up and come to Starbucks, or the whole team will know soon too.”</p><p>What a pain Neil is.</p><p>At least he can feel the pain of dealing with him now. <br/><br/></p><p>—</p><p>II.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He never should have let Andrew go this far. He should’ve made Wymack stop it. He should’ve made Betsy do her job better. He should’ve—</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you want, Neil?” Renée smiles, gesturing towards the poor, freshman barista hurriedly throwing together a Bubblegum Blast Triple-Whip Chocolate Frap for her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right. Starbucks. He’s not done with this yet. He’s never done seeing all the people he loves as they get hurt, day in and day out. The hurt just gets bored of him every once and a while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But, somehow, the hurt will have to wait for a while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now is time for coffee and regaining the appearance of sanity when the person you love is still in so much pain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Two peppermint mochas, extra expresso,” Neil sighs.<br/></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Andrew glares at his ‘gay order’, but makes no protest at the mocha when Neil slides it over to him as they settle into a table at the far edge of the café.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Starbucks is too public a place for this. On the bright side, this is the only way Andrew won’t run or fight. At least, hopefully he won’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, Andrew,” Renée starts. Andrew glares at her, no doubt contemplating making a run for it, “I have a deal for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">”A deal.” Andrew repeats dejectedly, his knuckles white from pressure and blood-loss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The psychotic midget, who for some reason Neil tolerates being somewhat slightly irreversibly in love with, sips his peppermint mocha “homo juice” like it’s made out of gold.<br/></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have nothing I want, hetero,” Andrew glares.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">”That’s not exactly true, now,” Renée coos. “I have vodka, expensive cigarettes, and a whole bag of poppers in my trunk.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Andrew glares at her. “I’m listening.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Neil’s mouth falls agape. “Poppers? What are those for?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">”You’ll see later,” Andrew smirks.</p><p class="p1">”Anyways,” Renée says. “Andrew, you haven’t been yourself lately.”</p><p class="p1">”I’ve never been myself,” the blond quips.</p><p class="p1">”Well, even for you, you’ve been acting strange.”</p><p class="p1">”One example?”</p><p class="p1">“The other day,” Neil interjects, earning a glare from the death midget of love himself. “As we got back from practice, we walked by that park. You normally try to avoid that route, but I wouldn’t let you. You spent ten minutes at that park, Andrew. Just on the sidewalk. Not moving. Just watching as kids played on the playground and dogs barked and shit.”</p><p class="p1">”I was enjoying the weather.”</p><p class="p1">”You were crying.”</p><p class="p1">Andrew’s mouth falls open, this time in shock.</p><p class="p1">“I was not.”</p><p class="p1">“You really were. For ten minutes straight. I had to tug at you to get you to move forward.”</p><p class="p1">Andrew glances away uncomfortably.</p><p class="p1">Neil keeps going. He has to. He knows he has to. “You were smiling at them, Andrew. You were smiling at the kids and the dogs and the families and the weather and the grass and you were crying too.”</p><p class="p1">“I was not.”</p><p class="p1">”I don’t think you realize you were,” Renée quips. Andrew slides a look at her, looking as vaguely intrigued as a repressed psychotic dwarfling could ever. </p><p class="p1">“Look,” Renée starts, “school is over. We’re almost seniors. And we have all summer to spend with the team. Just, for the next two weeks, come out with us every day. We have things to show you. Things you NEED to see.”</p><p class="p1">”I could always watch paint dry.”</p><p class="p1">”The vodka is huckleberry flavored and the cigarettes are imported from Russia.”</p><p class="p1">Andrew remains silent for a good half minute. “Fine,” Andrew eventually retorts, clearly registering Neil’s threat from earlier. “сука.”</p><p class="p1">“Excellent,” Renée stands, gargling her frap juice like mouthwash. “Get in the Mas. We’re going somewhere fun today.”</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">III.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Neil looks like he’s going to cry.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">As a result, Andrew’s somewhat entertained for once.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You know I fucking hate carnies, Renée, so why the fuck are we here?” Neil whines like a toddler. “You said this would help!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“And it will, twink, just go with it,” the rainbow-haired girl states calmly, dropping a pair of rainbow-rimmed, heart-shaped sunglasses onto the bridge of her perfect button nose.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Trust us.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Us?” Neil grumbles.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They walk on, though, without protest. Neil’s gaze falls low, his hands twitching nervously at his sides. Andrew seems as impassive as ever, although he seems to be watching the roller coaster with a mild sense of distrust.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">To be fair, the Columbia Carnival was a drunken sleazefest of gargantuan proportions. Kevin refused to go on principal, always balking at the “deep fried butter” and “under regulated death traps.” How exactly this fuckstop of a place will help Andrew from tearing his wrist open again, Neil can’t even begin to guess.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">There’d been so much blood. There’d never been that much blood before. Andrew always stopped at fifteen minutes before. Fifteen minutes. Always.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Something’s changing underneath the placid waters of Andrew’s blank exterior. Maybe a sea monster is lurking. Maybe a boy is drowning. Maybe both. The possibility of both is what scares Neil the most. When they’re done with this, which will sink its teeth into Andrew for good? The man or the monster?</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Earth to Midget Fucker! Calling Midget Fucker!” Nicky Hemmick’s elated voice shouts, and Andrew’s scowl worsens into a grimace.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yo, Nick,” Neil darts his eyes at the adult toddler named Nicky Hemmick, a 22-year-old dressed in a Hawaiian palm tree shirt unbuttoned sinfully low with soft pink bootyshorts. At Nicky’s side stands a huge German hunk with lo g blond hair and lost blue eyes, like bright glassy marbles. After realizing that this man must be Erik (a Germanic beefcake holding presumably Nicky’s churro besides his own sweet treat), Neil finally turns to Renée. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Why the hell is Nicky here?” Neil asks her.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Rude,” Nicky pouts.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“He’s here to take you on rides,” Renée smirks. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go with Andrew and we’re gonna have our girl talk over cotton candy.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Rides?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Cotton candy?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">“Oh, HELL yeah,” Nicky beams. “Neil, you’re gonna love The Screamin’ Comet.”</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Listen, homosexual relative,” Andrew’s eyes narrow at Nicky, briefly vicious before returning to their normal placid boredom. “I don’t want to scrape Neil off the pavement today. I’m wearing my white sneakers. If one hair on his head is gone, I’m going to steal your rattail comb again—“</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Wait, when did you steal my comb?!—“</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“And I’m going to use your rattail comb to drag you by your balls across the Exy Court until you can’t feel your face.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Kinky,” Nicky smirks. </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s2">By now being used to the dark skinned boy’s antics</span> <span class="s2">, Andrew simply gestures vaguely to Renée, and they trudge off together, an oddly terrifying pair of teenagers at a carnival.</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“So,” Nicky’s grin starts to eat shit, and Neil can feel himself regretting asking Renée for help. “Last night,” Nick asks, “Did you finally let Andrew go bareb—“</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Well, at least Nicky saw THIS punch before it landed. </span>
</p>
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